


This Time

by chollarcho



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chollarcho/pseuds/chollarcho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rollicking time-travel adventure with Cain and Praxis!  Not cheerful at all.  Major character death in the first paragraph, not even kidding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cain Time Travels

Abel was laid to rest with ten other fighters and navigators on the evening of the day after the battle.  The uninjured of the _Sleipnir_ ’s crew gathered in the hangar for the funeral, subdued.  Even with relatively few dead, there were many more casualties filling the medical bay to capacity, spilling over into the decks above and below.  The _Sleipnir_ herself was badly damaged, and though she had escaped from Colteron territory, currently hiding in a nebula, it was uncertain whether she could make it back to Earth.

At least the mission had been successful.  That was the whole point of this crazy foray.  And at least Cain wasn’t dead, because he sure as hell hadn’t volunteered for suicide.

But Abel was gone.

Cain was in a wheelchair, would be for weeks, and was in terrible pain from the burns his legs had sustained—but he railed at the medical staff until they got a starfighter technician to drop what repairs he was doing and wheel Cain to the hangar.  There he sat by the gray box that held what was left of Abel and the others, hating Abel for volunteering them for the _Sleipnir_ , hating himself for liking Abel so much that having him dead felt worse than anything he had felt before.

The commanders said a few words about the dead and called for a moment of silence before asking the crew to share remembrances.  Cain’s head ached, his stomach turned; he swallowed down sourness collecting in his mouth.  He shut his eyes, lost track of time, felt the hangar spinning around him, wished he had just stayed in medical—

At some point Commander Bering asked him if he wanted to say anything about Abel.  Cain opened his eyes and the hangar righted itself, but a fresh wave of pain washed over him.  Fucking useless medication…  “He was a better navigator than any of you pansies,” he mumbled, his voice still carrying in the quiet of the hangar.  “Cowards, all of us.”  Then he thought he would be sick and leaned over the side of the chair, just in case.  Abel was the only navigator who hadn’t held back in battle, had gone for the figurative throat of the Colteron shipyard.  He’d shown Cain how to thoroughly disable it, the explosions flinging them in a dizzying spiral from the battle-space.  Cain had been pissed at the time, knowing the blast should have ripped the _Reliant_ apart, but Abel had figured out just the flight path to preserve their structural integrity.  He couldn’t have anticipated the stray Colteron patrol vessel that intercepted them and got in a shot before Cain blasted it to pieces, and that wasn’t Abel’s fault, Cain conceded.

But Cain was convinced only Abel had the foolhardy courage to complete the mission.  And now Cain had a loss he could barely comprehend.

He became aware that he was rolling back to medical.  The hangar had been emptied, the coffin jettisoned into space, the crew slowly moving to the arduous work of repairing the ship and shuffling back to Earth.  “I’m really sorry about Abel,” said a voice he knew, haltingly.  “I know that…that you really cared for him.  I think he liked you too.”

“Fuck off, Praxis, I don’t need your bullshit,” Cain snarled, feeling less ill with something (someone) concrete to hate.

“I’m just saying, if you need someone to talk to—”

“I need for you to shut your fucking mouth!  Don’t fuck with me, Tiberius.  I know all about your little crush on Abel,” Cain spat, wondering how Abel had felt about Praxis, wondering if they had ever kissed, or anything more.  “You’re the last person I want to see.  Get the fuck away from my chair.”

“Let me just take you back to medical,” Praxis said quietly, still pushing the chair one handed, his other arm in a sling.

“I said fuck off!”  Somehow he was out of the chair, his legs screaming (or was that his voice?) but his arms obeying.  Praxis’ nose crunched under his fist; Praxis punched back, bloodying Cain’s mouth.  Or was it not a punch, but a push back into the chair?  Cain’s vision grayed, and he was unable to feel anything but the overpowering pain in his legs.  He was falling, catching himself on the chair, toppling again.  His fists smashed into the ground, and he landed heavily on his arms.  He stared at his hands, bloody and scratched, and thought he could smell their sharp metallic tang before he knew no more.

\--

Upon wakening, he could still smell the blood, which is why he thought it very odd that his legs no longer hurt and Abel was curled up beside him, his bony ass poking into Cain’s stomach.

Cain pushed himself up, staring down at Abel blearily, then looking at his legs, unburned.  Slowly he reached out, touched Abel’s back, felt him stir—“Are you awake?” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say, and it seemed appropriate.  Right, it was morning.  He had physical training in a little over an hour and Abel had an evening shift at the lab, so it would be nice to have some fun before they parted ways for the day.

“Mmm,” Abel yawned, turning over.  Cain kept his hand on Abel’s shoulder, marveling that it felt so real and warm.  Abel blinked sleep from his eyes, a small smile touching his lips, before he suddenly shoved Cain away.  “Oh, gross!  Cain, I _told_ you, bandage your hands before getting in bed.  Look, there’s blood smeared on the sheet and now my shoulder.  Why don’t you ever listen to me?  I thought Lieutenant Encke put a stop to all those fights.”

Cain looked at his hands, remembering the way Praxis’ cartilage sounded and felt, crumbling under his fists like stale bread, the way the spokes of the wheelchair helped to break his fall but ripped open his knuckles, the way the floor was so hard and cold and dirty, bruising him.  There his hands were, showing every mark from the encounter with Praxis after the funeral.

He glanced up at Abel, who was fishing around inside their chest of drawers for the first aid kit.  “Sorry,” he said gruffly, as Abel started cleaning the bruises with antiseptic.

“Another fight?” Abel asked, still sounding displeased.

“No—yeah, I guess,” Cain replied after a moment.  “I broke Praxis’ nose.”

Abel glared up at him, pausing over tying the bandages off fussily.  “What is your problem with him?  He’s a decent guy.”

“Yeah, I bet you like him,” Cain sneered.  He wished he hadn’t said anything when Abel gave him a disgusted look.

“Cain, I know you’re stressed with the mission so close, but we all are.  So keep your shitty opinions to yourself,” Abel snapped, turning to put away the kit.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.  The nice view of Abel’s ass reminded Cain why he woke Abel up in the first place—he wanted to fuck before the day started, relieve the stress of knowing that in three days, far too soon, they would climb into the _Reliant_ and attack the Colteron shipyard.  He reached out and pulled Abel back against him, muttering apologies.

Wait—no.  Cain shook his head, trying to clear the fog of confusion.  They had already attacked the shipyard.  Abel was already dead.

“Baby, I—I gotta go,” he stammered, pushing Abel away.  “Training starts early today.  I forgot.  I’ll see you later.”  If Cain didn’t wake up and discover he was dreaming, that is.

Abel seemed disappointed, but sat back quietly.  “Okay,” he agreed softly.  “No more fights, got it?”

“No more fights,” Cain said absently.


	2. Cain Tries to Figure Out What the Fuck Is Going On

It was still early, so Cain knew Deimos would be in his room.  Cain sounded the door buzzer over and over until Deimos answered.  Deimos, bare from the waist up, froze in the doorway when he saw Cain.  Cain stared past him at his navigator, sprawled naked across the lower bunk, a pillow modestly covering his lap.  The navigator, some stuck-up, prissy young man who whined and gossiped too much for his own good, scowled back at him. 

Cain frowned.  Deimos’ navigator should have been dead, too. 

Deimos glanced between them and looked at Cain worriedly. 

“Get dressed.  We need to talk,” Cain snapped at him.  Deimos hurried to find his shirt and jacket, his navigator starting to complain:  “What, you’re just going to leave?  We’ve still got half an hour.  Fine, go with him.  See if I ever wake up early to fuck again.” 

Deimos ignored him and followed Cain out of the stirring residential decks to the quiet training level.  Cain pushed him inside the first combat simulator and keyed the door shut behind them.  Deimos flinched away, rasping, “We just fuck sometimes, I swear it’s nothing—” 

“What do I care if you’re fucking your navigator?”  Before the battle, before Abel had died, Cain would have cared, he knew.  He didn’t fuck Deimos often anymore, but he was comforted knowing that Deimos was always there for him. 

Deimos was clearly confused but he relaxed a little.  He looked up questioningly, waiting for Cain to continue. 

“Something’s going on,” Cain said, and then didn’t know what else to say without sounding like an idiot, or crazy.  That the battle was three days past but still three days away?  That Abel was or should have been or would be dead, Deimos’ navigator too, and nine others; dozens more missing limbs, or severely burned, or in a coma? 

“Last night I went to the funeral,” he said slowly, watching Deimos start to frown.  “Then I punched that fucker Praxis’ face and bashed his nose in.  When I woke up this morning, I found out that the battle hasn’t happened yet.  What do you know, Myshonok?”  Deimos would know something.  He always did. 

Deimos was quiet for what seemed like several minutes, searching Cain’s face.  “I don’t know anything about that,” he whispered at last.  “What do you mean, the battle happened?” 

“I mean that yesterday was six days in the future, and now I’m back here, and my legs aren’t burned, Abel’s alive and in our room, and—”  He ripped the bandages from his hands in frustration.  “Look!  I hit Praxis with my left fist—and here’s where I hit my wheelchair when he fucking punched me in the jaw, all these cuts from the spokes—Deimos!  God fucking damn it!  Don’t act like you don’t remember anything!  You were there in medical too, your arms broken!” 

“I don’t know,” Deimos repeated.  “It sounds like a dream.” 

“If it was a dream, tell me how I ended up with bloody hands” Cain snarled, shoving Deimos back into the simulator wall, hard.  “You’re fucking useless.  I’m going to find Praxis, and if his nose isn’t broken, I will fucking break it again.” 

Deimos stayed where he fell, covering his head and neck.  Cain aimed a kick at him, but pivoted and hit the wall instead.  “Get up!  Get out there.  Listen to everything.  Tonight I want to know if anyone is talking about the battle like it already happened, or if anyone has battle wounds.” 

Deimos nodded.  Satisfied that Deimos was frightened of him and would obey whether or not he thought Cain was dreaming, Cain went searching for Praxis.

\--

As the fighters lined up for inspection and training orders, he caught sight of Praxis near the end of the line, his eyes blackened with blood and his nose covered with medical tape.  Cain’s heart pounded.  He had done that damage, in the corridor near the medical deck, after the funeral, hadn’t he?  It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.  He stayed close to Praxis throughout training, caught Praxis staring at him a few times, and for once he didn’t scowl back.  There was something grim and knowing in Praxis’ expression that Cain recognized—the confusion of this strange day that should have already happened. 

So when Praxis lingered in the showers after training, Cain waited too, avoiding Encke’s curious look at his bruised hands.  The showers emptied out and the steam dissipated as the fighters went to the mess hall for lunch, and Praxis approached Cain carefully. 

“If you punch my nose again, I will break your fucking arm,” Praxis said, his voice distorted by the break and heavy taping. 

“As if you could.  I got you when I couldn’t fucking stand up,” Cain shot back, holding up a fist for emphasis. 

Praxis looked closer.  “The wheelchair ripped up your knuckles,” he said after a moment, glancing up at Cain cautiously. 

Cain was relieved.  Praxis knew.  “No one else remembers.  Abel’s—no one’s dead.  Heard we’re three days away.” 

“We are.  It seems like everything is happening just as it happened—well, before.  We can’t talk here,” Praxis warned.  “I already tried asking my navigator about it, and he wanted me to get medical to scan my brain or something.” 

As much as Cain disliked Praxis, he probably had a point.  “My room.  My navigator’s on duty through the day and evening,” Cain suggested, already leading the way.  Praxis followed him silently, setting Cain’s spine tingling. 

Cain locked the door when they stepped inside, watching Praxis eye the mattresses on the floor.  The bedding was precisely made up, but the configuration was hardly subtle.  Praxis might have scowled a little, but it was difficult to tell with the bruising on his face.  Still, Cain wasn’t one to let a good opportunity pass.  “Like what you see?” he taunted. 

“I already knew you were sleeping with him,” Praxis said tiredly.  “Let’s stay focused.  Do you remember anything before waking up this morning?” 

“No, I blacked out from pain after I hit the floor,” Cain admitted.  “Woke up here without burned legs.” 

“My arm is better too,” Praxis said.  “But I didn’t black out.  I can’t remember it well, but I was trying to get you back in the wheelchair.  My nose was bleeding heavily, thanks to you, you shit, so I turned my head up to lessen the flow.  Then I shut my eyes for a moment, and next thing I know, I’m in bed.  On this day, five days earlier.”  He glanced at the clock.  “Six days, if time is still passing where we were—when we were.” 

Cain looked down at the little blood stain on the blanket.  “Deimos thinks it was a dream.” 

“Your rat?  He remembers?”  Praxis' expression was a peculiar mixture of disdain and interest.

“No—I told him what happened to see if he knew anything.  He doesn’t, told me I’d had a dream.  But he’ll listen around.  If anyone else remembers, he’ll find out.”  

“Good.  Because it wasn’t a dream.  I think we’ve gone back in time.” 

Cain snorted skeptically.  “That shit’s not possible.  Time travel?  That’s like something from the reels back home.”  He remembered, as a child, seeing a grainy, flickering old film about a man who traveled forward in time in a big machine. 

“But it’s happened before.  There’s that story about how the _Hyperion_ ’s crew went into deep space and when they got back, half the crew claimed that they’d repeated the same month at least once.  Maybe more than twenty times, they were so disoriented—” 

“The _Hyperion_ was decommissioned almost a fucking century ago, Praxis, don’t waste my time with your fucking tall tales—” 

“It’s true!  My great-grandfather was on the research team.  I read his journals, he wrote down everything he told the Alliance doctors—” 

“Bullshit!” 

“Well, _Cain_ , tell me all about your reasonable explanation for what the fuck is going on, then!” 

Cain fumed, clenching his fists until the cuts reopened.  “I don’t know!” he growled.  “But that’s fucking crazy, time travel…”  He shook his head.  “Okay, so, if that’s what happened, what happens next?  What happened to the _Hyperion_?” 

“Nothing.  They lived one month more than once and then time started moving normally again.” 

“So, what, we just keep going?”  Go on the mission again—possibly over and over?  Sit at the funeral, knowing that when he passed out, he’d wake up next to Abel again, only to watch him die a few days later?  Cain ground his teeth.  His jaw ached where Praxis had clipped him. 

Praxis turned away, reaching to open the door.  “Maybe.  I want to see the corridor near medical, right where you punched me.  Your chair dented the wall.” 

“You want more proof than the nose I broke?”

“You want one to match?”

Cain shut up.


	3. Cain Has a Lot of Great Ideas

Cain crossed his arms and kept an eye out for passing medical personnel.  “You wanna hurry the fuck up?”

Praxis was stooped over, shuffling down the hallway with his palms flat against the wall.  “I’m sure there was a dent—”

“You look crazy.  You want the doctors to scan your brain after all, pull you from duty?”  Cain looked around the stretch of corridor.  It was approximately here, Praxis had told him, between wards 5 and 6 where they had argued before time changed.  Cain scuffed his foot along the floor, thinking about how it had been dusted in the grit of damaged equipment after the battle.  The walls, too, had been battle-marred due to impact from Colteron attacks, but now—or yet—they were intact.

“My great-grandfather wrote that one of his colleagues claimed to have seen parts of the _Hyperion_ change too,” said Praxis, finally pushing himself up from the wall, holding a hand gingerly to his nose.  “I thought—I hoped something would be here.”

“There isn’t.  What now?”

Praxis shrugged helplessly, looking at him with something suspiciously like pity.  “It’s all going to happen again, Cain,” he said, gently. 

Cain felt something tighten in his chest, and he wanted to punch Praxis again to make it go away.  Instead, he asked, “How many times, did you say?  Thirty?”

“Twenty on the _Hyperion_ , but that was never agreed upon by the crew. I…I’m sorry.  I really am.”

Cain snarled.  “Don’t fucking talk to me like that.  I’m not going to do that shit again.  I’m going to save Abel.  You’ll see, you fucking worthless waste of air.”

“Cain—”  Praxis was saying something, still sounding so fucking _sad_ for him, but Cain was already stalking away, mind whirling, thinking of all the ways he could prevent Abel from entering battle.

\--

His head throbbed, reminding him a little of time he had gone with his father to the mines and he had stayed outside to play with the domestic wolves for so long that his head hurt from the cold.  His limbs had felt rubbery and his extremities were turning bluish; what a scolding he’d had from Papa!  And what a scolding Papa had had from Mama and Babushka later for not keeping an eye on him.

He lay on his side on the bed, alone with his headache and his memories of home.  After all this was over, if the _Sleipnir_ could just make it back to a base, or within communication range of another ship, then Cain would probably be sent on shore leave, as was typical after a big mission.  He could go back to Mars, see his parents and Babushka and little Sonechka.  She wouldn’t be so little anymore.

He’d take Abel with him, he decided, whether or not his prim princess liked it.  Abel probably came from a well-to-do Earth family, Cain was almost certain.  Many navigators did—they were expensively educated, all at heads of their classes.  It would do Abel good to see what life was like in the industrial cities of the ten Mars colonies.  Colony Five wasn’t so bad, anyway.  There were public parks, some movie theaters, an arena, and even a glorious cathedral built of steel.  It was too bad the zoo had closed long ago, all the animals dead from the cruel caprices of the artificial atmosphere and the storms of pollution that blew over the city from the mines every now and then.

But Abel would like his family.  They were nice.  Babushka would stuff him full of borscht and pelmeni.  Maybe Abel’s skinny ass would put on some weight.  And then they could fuck and take walks through the parks and build snowmen until the Alliance called them back to duty.

The door hissed open.  Cain watched Abel stumble wearily around the room, stripping off his uniform and washing his face at the sink.  “Hey, baby,” he said through his headache and the tight feeling in his chest.  Deimos hadn’t found out anything, so it seemed that  Praxis and he alone were reliving these days.  His head hurt from the stress and fear of trying to formulate a solid plan to save Abel’s life.

“I’m so tired,” Abel mumbled, collapsing on the bed next to Cain, “but we’ve got the shipyard mapped out, all the vulnerable points targeted.  We’re going to win this.”

Cain wrapped an arm around Abel’s waist.  “I know.”

Abel’s breath was warm and slow against Cain’s neck.  “I’m so tired,” he whispered again.  “Fuck in the morning?”

“Through the mattress, sweetheart,” Cain drawled, and Abel laughed on a short exhale.

\--

He fucked Abel hard an hour and a half before physical training, and then he tripped Abel in their little bathroom, spraining Abel’s ankle badly.  “Shit, baby, I’m sorry,” he said for the tenth time as he helped Abel hobble to medical.

“It’s not your fault, I didn’t see you behind me,” Abel insisted again, wincing each time his ankle brushed against Cain’s leg.

The doctor on duty felt Abel’s ankle with a frown.  “Just a sprain,” he agreed.  “I’ll give you a shot for the pain.”

Cain glanced at Abel.  This was it.  “Sir, I can’t reasonably fly with a navigator who is injured.  Could you see that Navigator Abel is taken off duty for the upcoming mission?”

Abel opened his mouth to protest, but the doctor beat him to it.  “Your concern is valid, but Abel’s ankle will not prevent him from navigating.  The pain medication is very effective.  He will be at his full capabilities.”

Cain nodded obediently, cursing inside, while Abel sat there looking relieved, the stupid shit.  He needed to break Abel’s wrists somehow.

\--

But the chance never arose.  Abel was scarce that day and the next, deeply involved in mission preparations.  The morning of the mission came, and Cain tried to make Abel fall from the wing of the _Reliant_ as they boarded.  Abel caught himself and glared at Cain.  “Careful!  We need to be at our best now.”

They were.  They set off the series of explosions again, and the blast hurtled them from battle, and the Colteron patrol shot at them, and Abel died.  Cain woke up in medical with burns again, Praxis by his side with a broken arm, volunteering to wheel Cain to the funeral.

He didn’t hit Praxis again.  He didn’t need to.  As they returned to medical, Cain shut his eyes for a moment against the pain in his legs, and when he opened them, Abel was pressed against his side in bed.

\--

Each time after that, he wondered if this was the last time, if time wouldn’t turn back and give him another three days with Abel.  He had to hope it wasn’t, that he’d keep waking up six days earlier, because nothing he did prevented Abel from climbing into the _Reliant_.

He picked an explosive fight with Abel, broke his left wrist, and pissed-off Abel still flew, wearing a cast and with his wrist locally— _very_ locally—anesthetized by the doctors.  Cain wanted to beat up the whole medical team, damn them and their miraculous techniques.  He sat through the funeral and didn’t speak to Praxis as he rolled slowly back to medical, only to wake up with his arms around Abel.

He saved some rations from the cafeteria for two days and convinced sleepy Abel to eat the molding food as a snack the night before the battle.  Abel was sick, spent the night vomiting with Cain holding his hair away from his face, and was recovered by morning.  He fought and died.  Cain was silent at the funeral, and when he woke up six days earlier, silently held Abel close against him.

He went to the chief medical officer and Commander Cook, urging them to remove Abel from the mission because his navigator wasn’t sleeping properly.  He was too stressed to fly well, he told them, and a danger to the other starfighters in formation.  He wasn’t himself.  He needed solitary rest and time off.  The officers interviewed the lead navigator, Keeler, and determined that Abel was fit to fly.  Abel died again, and this time Cain didn’t ask to go to the funeral.  Praxis took him to the corridor where they had fought, and as they waited, he pretended not to notice when Cain rubbed at his eyes.

He lost track of the iterations, and of his attempts to keep Abel from battle.  Praxis had been right:  the experience was disorienting.  Had it been five times?  Ten?  More?  Was he repeating some of his futile ideas?

He finally sought out Praxis again, on an evening two days before the battle, a bottle of whiskey in hand.  They sat in Praxis’ room, silent, drinking.  Praxis still sported the black eyes and broken nose, looking as fresh as if Cain had just inflicted them, but he appeared tired.

“Can’t count them anymore,” Praxis said after a while.

“What?”

“These…loops,” Praxis said vaguely.  “I just know there’ve been several.”

Cain nodded.  They fell quiet again until Cain blurted, “Did you fuck Abel?”

Praxis was visibly surprised.  “Abel?  No.  Why—”

Cain shook his head, pouring more whiskey into his glass.  “Always looked at him.  Deimos told me you talked with him sometimes.”

“We’re just friends,” Praxis said quietly.  “No, not even—we’re acquaintances.”

“You never even kissed him?”

“No.”

“You ever think about it?”

Praxis eyed him doubtfully.  “I’m not interested in a fight right now, so if you’re trying to pick one, you can fucking leave.”

Cain let his head fall to his hands, drunk and hopeless.  “I can’t do a fucking thing to save him,” he said, voice muffled.  “Tried everything.  He keeps getting in the fucking ship.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Praxis whispered.  “I know that—that you love him, but maybe this is something you can’t change.”

“I have to!” Cain threw his glass against the floor.  It bounced, rolled around, and hit the empty whiskey bottle.  “I can’t let him go.”

Praxis didn’t say anything for a few minutes.  “How did he die?” he asked hesitantly.

“Colteron patrol ship got us while we were in free-fall from the blast,” Cain replied, and he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing himself not to cry now.  Abel would be heading back to their room in an hour, and he’d probably notice if Cain had been crying.

Praxis was quiet again, but this time thoughtful.  “Maybe there’s still something you can do,” he said suddenly.  “Maybe all you need to do is stop the patrol ship.”

“While spinning?  Sure.  That’s a great idea,” spat Cain.

“So pull out of free-fall early,” Praxis said bluntly.  “What have you got to lose?”

Cain looked up at him, the tightness in his chest worse than ever.  Nothing else.  Abel was all he wanted right now, and Abel was already lost.


	4. Cain Is a Man with a Plan

There was so little Cain could do to put Praxis’ idea into action, but he had to try.  So the night before the battle, he rolled on top of Abel in their bed, pinning his wrists to the mattress.  Abel wriggled under him, frowning.  “Cain, not tonight.  We need our strength—let’s leave it until after the battle.” 

“Shut up.  We’re not going to fuck.  Just want to talk.” 

“What, like this?” 

“Listen to me.” 

Abel must have sensed something foreboding in Cain’s tone or expression, because he stilled and quieted. 

“Baby, tomorrow, out there, don’t lose control of the starfighter, okay?” Cain said, holding Abel’s gaze. 

Abel was startled by his intensity, his breath quickening. 

“I can’t target the enemy ships otherwise,” Cain went on, speaking gently but firmly.  “Don’t lose control.” 

Abel nodded, his brows furrowed and serious.  “I won’t,” he said, and that would have to do.  Cain had to let Abel fly, be a hero, or none of them would return alive.  And Cain had to protect Abel, or he would wish he had died too. 

That tightness entered his chest, the ball of fear he had first felt after learning that Abel hadn’t simply lost the communication link, no, he had been killed by the shot from that Colteron patrol ship.  Cain now recognized the feeling as grief and he snarled at himself, mentally.  He shouldn’t feel it now, not before Abel had another chance to live.  The battle was ten hours away, Abel’s potential death eleven.  Cain ordered himself to fight like he had never fought before—not merely for his own survival, but for Abel’s. 

He bent his head to kiss Abel.  Abel kissed back, and Cain rolled them to the side, gathering Abel in his arms.

\--

Abel expertly flew the _Reliant_ through the shipyard, and the map overlaid on Cain’s screen showed all the attack points.  Cain hit each precisely—he wasn’t sure he _could_ miss any targets, now that he had fought the same battle so many times. 

Then, moments before the series of detonations that would send their little starfighter spinning away, he told Abel again, “Stay in control!” 

Before Abel could reply, the shipyard rippled with explosions.  The first wave of the blasts came from farther away, and the _Reliant_ rode it like a boat on choppy waters.  The second wave was closer, slammed into them obliquely, and the third was right behind it, rolling the _Reliant_ up and away, head over heels. 

They spun dizzily, direction becoming meaningless with Abel’s navigation screen unable to reconcile with the ship’s wild motion.  “ _Stabilize!_ ” Cain screamed.  They only had a few seconds— 

Abel yanked the _Reliant_ in the opposite direction, firing the thrusters to slow them.  The sturdy frame of the ship shuddered, but held.  Cain slammed his palm onto the target screen, the system recalibrating as the ship steadied, and the patrol vessel blinked up.  He fired. 

The small Colteron ship rocked back, smoke billowing from the missile port.  Cain’s second volley hit an instant later, taking out the engine and destroying the front half of the ship. 

“Get us back!” he barked. 

Abel was already careening away, hurtling them back into the fray.  Cain cursed.  He had saved Abel and wanted to get him back to the _Sleipnir_ before anything else could happen, but Abel had always proven himself to be stupidly brave.  Angry and frightened, his heart pounding so hard he felt it pulse in every part of his body, Cain readied his weapons array again, blasting apart each Colteron ship in their way. 

They cut a bloody swath through the melee.  Abel sought out starfighters struggling to survive, and Cain intuitively understood where to fire from how Abel circled and dived into these skirmishes.  They’d both get shit from the lead fighter and navigator for breaking formation, but Cain knew this was how Abel needed to fight. 

Then a Colteron ship hit a starfighter, propelling it at the _Reliant_.  Abel spun them around and down, Cain ready to fire, but the Colterons fired first, damaging the _Reliant_ ’s primary engine.  The impact flung Cain forward in his seat, and sparks from the machinery below his seat quickly caught fire, but he shot back anyway. 

“Damn it, Abel, get us back!” he shouted, trying to stamp out the flames under his feet.  His flight suit was starting to melt and burn his skin.  The flames fizzled as the vacuum of space where the engine had been sucked them dry, and the _Reliant_ ’s structure shrieked. 

“Cain, hold on!” Abel cried.  The emergency shields kicked in, preventing further damage to the interior of the ship, but as they flew, it became clear that the secondary engine and thrusters were not powerful enough.  “This is the _Reliant_. Primary engine incapacitated.  Secondary engine at sixty percent and falling,” Abel said frantically over the communication link.  “Assistance urgently requested—” 

“This is the _Ares_.  Prepare magnetic clamps.  We’ll be right there!” 

Cain gritted his teeth against the searing pain in his legs.  The _Ares_ —that was Deimos’ starfighter.  Cain didn’t know how well Deimos’ whiny navigator flew, but he could trust Deimos to cover them on the retreat. 

Abel guided the _Reliant_ beside the slowing _Ares_.  The clamps locked into place, and the _Ares_ shot back towards the _Sleipnir_.  The flight path was simple and straight, a dramatic change from Abel’s skillful maneuvering.  But Deimos and Cain took out the few Colteron ships straggling behind the Alliance’s line, and minutes later the _Sleipnir_ loomed before them.

\--

Cain couldn’t get out of the _Reliant_ , his flight suit melted against the seat.  He remembered this part of each iteration well, though it hadn’t seemed so painful the times before.  A technician and a medical assistant opened the hatch and began cutting him free.  Cain groaned; as his adrenaline rush tapered off, the intense pain of the burns consumed him.  He was barely conscious as he was lifted out and lowered to a gurney. 

Through a haze settling over his eyes, ears, and brain, he heard Abel cry out weakly nearby, and then the screeching of another gurney being rushed to the starfighter.  “My legs, oh, _fuck_ —!” he heard from Abel. 

Good.

\--

Cain woke up in the familiar hubbub of the overflowing medical bay.  Below his waist, he felt a dull, deep pain, manageable, but very present. 

He turned his head a little, his vision swimming and the lights above him swirled in a rainbow of color.  He shut his eyes again, waited fifteen minutes, then thirty, and almost dozed off.  Then he heard Abel’s voice, very close, and he cracked his eyes open again. 

The lights were more normal, though the pain in his legs remained.  He looked to the left.  Abel was in the narrow gurney beside him, his legs also burned and his right arm in a cast.  But he was looking back at Cain and smiling.  “You are _so_ _sexy_ in a hospital gown,” Abel said cheerfully.  “Ever fucked in an infirmary before?” 

Cain snorted.  “Good to know the pain meds are working for you, princess,” he muttered.  “ _I_ feel like shit.” 

“I can’t feel anything at all,” Abel said in a singsong voice. 

“Well, then you won’t be able to feel me fuck you either, so shut up and let me rest.” 

“Mm, I can’t wait to have your cock inside me again—” 

“Hey, um, you might want to keep your voice down, Abel,” Praxis said, approaching their gurneys.  He had still broken one arm, but his black eyes were finally starting to fade. 

“He’s hopped up on the pain meds,” Cain informed him.  “They won’t believe a word he says.” 

Praxis smiled ruefully, and then leaned close to Cain’s ear.  “Two deaths.” 

Cain stared at him in surprise.  “Two?” 

“That’s all.” 

“The funeral?” 

Praxis shook his head.  “You missed it.  You’ve been mostly unconscious for five days.  Your injuries are much worse this time—the burns go all the way up your thighs.” 

“Five days,” Cain breathed.  They hadn’t gone back in time again, then.  They were moving forward. 

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose your dick,” Praxis continued conversationally. 

“Fuck off!” Cain growled, while Abel gasped.  “You lost your dick?” he asked loudly, sounding utterly devastated.  Fighters and navigators around them turned to stare. 

“I did _not_ lose my dick,” Cain snarled, raising his voice enough for all the spectators to hear. 

“You lost your _dick_?”  It was Deimos’ navigator, in a wheelchair with a broken leg.  Deimos, who had not broken his arms this time and seemed otherwise uninjured, was pushing the chair up to their gurneys.  The gossipy navigator turned to Abel, ignoring Cain’s furious sputtering.  “You could borrow my fighter sometime, if you want,” he said matter-of-factly.  “He’s quite good at pretty much everything.” 

Deimos paled and looked at Cain with wide eyes.  Cain pursed his lips, but finally shrugged.  He really didn’t care who Deimos fucked—well, not much.  Deimos could do better than this bossy busybody, but they could sort this out later.  Deimos ducked his head, relief plain on his face. 

Abel, bizarrely, was smiling shyly at Deimos’ navigator.  Cain frowned.  Abel disliked—no, maybe even hated him.  But Abel said:  “Thanks for hauling us back, Phobos.  We wouldn’t have made it without you.  I owe you one.” 

Phobos tossed his hair a little, his cheeks flushed though he spoke nonchalantly.  “You don’t.  If you hadn’t taken out those two ’Teron ships earlier, I wouldn’t have been there to help anyway.” 

Cain squinted at Phobos in confusion, and caught a similarly bemused glance from Abel.  Neither had paused to see which starfighters they had aided after returning to the battle-space.  Abel said smoothly, “I’m glad we were there for you.” 

Phobos gave him a little smile in return.  As Deimos wheeled him away, Phobos started complaining about the crappy rations. 

Praxis rolled his eye.  “Well, I’d better go.  Ethos broke both legs, so I need to take him to the cafeteria.  I’m glad you’re both doing well.” 

Cain caught Praxis’ uninjured hand before he stepped back and gave it a single, firm shake.  “Thanks,” he said gruffly. 

Praxis smiled at him, waved to Abel, and left. 

Cain looked back at Abel, who was watching him curiously.  “You made up with Praxis?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

“That’s nice to hear.”  Abel reached over and grabbed Cain’s hand.  Cain let him twine their fingers together, happy to feel any part of Abel, alive. 

“I’m hungry too,” Abel said after a few minutes. 

“My grandmother makes good borscht,” Cain told him without thinking.  It was the pain meds, he figured. 

“That pink soup?” 

“Yeah.” 

Abel grinned.  “I’d like to try it sometime.” 

Cain grinned back stupidly.  “Got some shore leave coming up when we’re recovered.”  Definitely the meds.  But Abel looked so pleased, Cain didn’t care what he said. 

“We’ll have a great time.” 

“Sure will, baby.”

\--

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to use Athos for the task name of our beloved elevator-jerk navigator, but Phobos and Deimos are the two moons of Mars (hence Ares), so...name change!


End file.
